Contemplations
by Gelado Pocket-mouse
Summary: To some, she was the Girl on Fire, the Mockingjay. To another, she was the girl who's voice made all the birds fall silent. And to one, she was the big sister that called her "Little Duck". One-shot collection, different POVs. Not in strategic order.
1. Maybe

I didn't expect this. Maybe if I'd bothered to think about such a minor thing as who she'd greet first, I'd have foreseen this, but as it was I'd had other concerns to worry about. And because I wasn't thinking about such a little thing, I'm surprised. She had turned, seen us, the mellow stylist, the insane, although normal by Capitol standards, escort, and me, and not hesitated. Well, if it had been between Effie and I, I wouldn't have been surprised that she leapt into my arms first, but with Cinna present, I was sure she'd run to him. Crying how she'd missed him, thanking him. Well, maybe not the latter. She was rather selfish in that sense. But still, even if she didn't verbalize her feelings, he had been the one who'd made her a favorite, upped her chances to survive, given her a name, the Girl on Fire. Him, and the boy. But she'd ignored him. And I'm surprised. She's gripping me, fiercer than I could have imagined from her present state, running into the arms of the old alcoholic whom we both know she has a certain loathing for. Maybe it's not just that, maybe it's her strength, the way her arms are thin and frail, but grasp me with an unexpected furiousness. I didn't expect that from a scarred, hunted animal. Maybe, that's why I'm surprised, because if I think about the other reason why I might be, I feel like I don't _have_ the right to be.

Maybe I don't. Cinna gave her a name, but I did more. Her mentor. For the first time in a long time, I saw tributes that had fight in them, who tore the wine from my hand and plunged knives into tables several centimeters away from my fingers, and I actually _tried_. Maybe I'd abandoned the others, but that was irrelevant now. To Katniss, I'd been a mentor. And more, a tribute. I think something can be said for the comfort found in someone who's been in your shoes before. I have. I know what it's like to fear for your life, for others'. To become both the hunter and the hunted. I've even experienced the poverty of living in the Seam, barely scraping by, signing up for tessera just to feed my family, going to bed at night with my stomach growling. And the coal dust. Everywhere. Being covered in it, head to toe, even a merchant could claim that much. Even if these similarities hadn't already existed, anyone and everyone who comes to mind who doesn't live in the Capitol or Districts 1,2, or 4, is in constant fear, knowing the anticipation broiling in their stomachs one day of every yea, at least. Even someone who's never reaped lives under this fear. And for those who are reaped… well. The tributes that _weren't_ victors were usually the luckiest.

And however unique Cinna may be, even as a far shot from the average sadistic, oblivious, freakish Capitol citizen, he still doesn't live in fear like we do. I'm not saying it's his fault, he can't help where he was born anymore than we can, but it does change him. Whether we chose it or not, we've lived in constant fear and poverty, hoping against hope it wasn't our names, dreading when we discovered it was. Cinna will never know that feeling, the specific way in which your stomach roils in knots, whether from hunger or terror. And there comes a certain point when a desire for understanding, for someone who knows what you're going through, is what a person really needs, more than anything else. And at the moment, that's what I am for Katniss. A fellow from District 12, but more importantly, a victor.

There's not _too _many people who know the exact feeling of being thrown into the arena to kill or be killed, but there are even fewer who know how it feels to come go in and come out alive. Only seventy five people in all of Panem, and most of them are dead now, anyway. And it's worse. Out of all of them, it's best for those who die in the bloodbath, only seconds after the gong rings, I decided a long time ago. That's because the most haunting aspect of the Games isn't when you're hunted, in danger of being slaughtered. A terrible feeling, one I'll never forget, yes, but it doesn't seem as bad if you compare it to when _you're _the hunter. If I think hypothetically, it doesn't make sense. If you have to kill them, and you know how it feels to be hunted, relative to hunt_ing_, wouldn't you think that what you're going through, killing them, is saving them from having to kill you? Doing them a favor? If one supposes that being killed is less painful than killing another, than shouldn't you be fine knowing that you're putting your victim through less pain? So the ones murdered only a few seconds in, who haven't a chance to harm anyone else, have it easy, right? But whenever I think along these lines, I fall into a hopeless circle. All this philosophical crap, it doesn't work that way. It doesn't ease my conscience at all, maybe because it might just be an excuse to convince myself I didn't do anything wrong. It doesn't work. It's not true, because you can tell the tributes aren't thinking that they're lucky when you see the terror in their eyes, their last thoughts as you end their lives. I doubt anyone else thinks in this 'circular logic' I've derived, "_Wow, I'm helping this person by killing them!"_ or "_I'm lucky this person's going to end my life so I don't have to live with the guilt of ending theirs! Thanks pal!" _That's just not how it works. I guess it's just another pathetic testament to show I've had way too much time to myself to think.

I don't know about Careers, don't know what runs through their heads, but I know most the victors have had way too much time to think as well. Many of them try not to let it show. Chaff, Johanna, me. Cover it up with snarky comments, or, in my case, booze. But it's there. The victors are the ones who hate the Capitol together, who are bound together because of their similarities, the common knowledge of guilt, of murdering, hunting and being hunted in turn, the comfort of knowing someone else is experiencing it with you. Many throughout the Districts resent the Capitol too, for slaughtering their children and letting the poorer Districts starve. But they don't have the same right to unadulterated loathing of them as we do. Watching the Games every year is a horrible ordeal that leaves everyone haunted. But _experiencing_ the Games is hell. And living through them. Dead or alive, you never win. And at least dead, you don't have to live with their blood for the rest of your life.

But there's something else, too. I can tell when I look down at the girl in my arms that it's more than just victor to victor. Maybe it's mentor to tribute, on a more individual level. Maybe it was the way we had unexpectedly been able to communicate while she was in the arena and I was out here. How the sponsors' gifts became massages and signs that we knew the other understood, leaving Peeta oblivious and out of the loop. And maybe what the boy had said was true. I shudder thinking about it, Peeta saying Katniss and I are alike. I'd never admit it, but maybe he's right. Both from the Seam, both victors, both with a temper. And fire. I knew how dangerous of a teenager I'd been, my stunt with the force field was proof of that. The girl in front of me has a similar determination, a will to live that might surpass the one I used to have. We're similar to some extent, that much at least is true. There's certainly hell of a lot she doesn't know about my past, we haven't known each other long after all, but something still can be said. Alcohol and a lifetime of nightmares have left me resigned to my fate. But the girl is youthful, her will to live, to keep those she loves alive, is adamantine. Her own stunt with the nightlock proved that. And while I admire her for her fight, I wish it weren't there. Because I know the Capitol, and they'll never let something like that go unpunished. They'll break Katniss Everdeen, and I won't be surprised. But even if it is going to make her life a hell, this tribute, with her will to survive, and her determination, undermined the Capitol. Foiled her smug would-be killers. She, and to a lesser extent, the boy, had showed the Capitol they weren't just pieces in their Games, even more strongly than I did. I'm not glad she did, but I'm still impressed. So when I whisper, "Nice job, sweetheart," I hope it doesn't sound too sarcastic.

They're alive. Both my tributes. This has never happened, needless to say, I never would have foreseen this. They're alive, for now, at least. But I fear for the boy's life. If they're to make this girl suffer, he, her sister, her 'cousin' I recently learned of, won't be around much longer. Because of Katniss' streak, no matter how admirable, they'll break her. They already broke me. My mother, my brother, my girl. All dead, and they'll do the same to Kantiss' family.

But then, there's the act. Or at least, what I think is an act, the boy and I set it up, anyway. "The Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12". I'd known she didn't love him, really, she'd caused quite a scene with the vase after he professed his love for her on national television. Yeah, that little occurrence with the vase certainly wasn't exactly the most romantic thing in the world. _His_, I knew was real, _his_ I could see. But hers was an act, a method of survival, that's what she was all about. I don't know why the boy loved her, but he did, maybe he admired her fight even more than everyone else. But she still didn't deserve him. She didn't love him. At least, that's what I'd thought. But now… the berries… I'm not so sure. But really, it doesn't matter what is _really _between them, if the Capitol _believes_ that it's real, then it might as well be. It was meant as a ruse to begin with, well, excluding the boy, at least, so it won't be any different now. And if it is real… all the better, it will be even easier to convince them if it's genuine. Either way, we _have_ to convince the Capitol the act of the berries was that of a desperate, love-sick girl who wanted to get her boyfriend home, not a rebellious girl attempting to undermine the Capitol's power. Whichever one it _really _is, they have to think it's the former. Katniss, Peeta, and I. Victors. They're the only family I have left. I can't, I _won't_ let them be extinguished like my dear old mother, my little brother, my girl. Maysilee Donner, and so many others. Two slaughtered children every reaping for twenty three years. My old family's gone. Maybe, hopefully, my new family won't leave. Maybe.


	2. Mice, Clocks, and Sacrifices

"_Hickory Dickory dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock,_

_The clock struck one_

_The mouse ran down,_

_Hickory Dickory dock."_

I'm thrust the large metal cylinder, a spool of coarse wire, caked in the now dry, thick precipitation of the blood rains. I scrub it vigorously with the palms of my hands, flakes of the stuff coming off at random intervals as it looses its grip with the ringed medal. I should shudder as it comes in contact with my skin and sinks away deep into the water below, I should recall the rain that came down in massive, never ending buckets, warm and thick and filling my eyes, ears, nose, lungs, and I couldn't breath, couldn't speak, couldn't see. Several sensory details do come to mind, but only the ones my imagination would be capable of conjuring if I had been informed of the circumstances: liquid precipitation that fell from the clouds above and was not water, but blood. It _does_ sound like something the Gamemakers would do, and if someone told me, if I read it, or watched it, I could imagine how it would get everywhere and be a… an unpleasant encounter to say the least. Any fluid coming from the skies you're trapped under would be inevitable to become saturated in, in mass quantity, so it wasn't hard to picture its victims sputtering and hacking and blinking to regain _any_ visibility, at least a little capability.

Some of the details in my mind may be my own, real memories that are not descriptions I have supplied. But I can't tell, they're so faint. I _do _remember, certainly, I would be at no loss if someone were to mention them. But maybe I would be if they mentioned how it was caked on me. I'd doubt it, but something tells me maybe it was, mostly because if this spool in my hands is in need of cleansing from the red former liquid, maybe I was too. Little evidence of it now, perhaps it was already washed off, but there are little traces of red here and there. They could be my own though, it's hard to say what really happened. The blood rains did pelt the earth, (or synthetic ground of the arena, at least), of that I am certain, but I couldn't say I recall experiencing it – _maybe_ I do, or maybe those are just what I picture it wouldfeel like if it did happen.

My "memories" are dim and fuzzy, present, but ill-defined. I think I watched them in another games. Yes, that seems right. I would say I read about them in some fanciful fiction tale, or maybe not so fiction, maybe not so different from the world we live in… but I don't think so, I remember the factor of sight. While I _am_ skilled in picturing or recreating scenes in my mind, given adequate description, I don't remember the tale of the blood as a string of words. It probably was one of the past Games I've viewed, not my own, and not this one, I don't think. The blood rain would be horrifying, revolting, the prospect of it, but… no more lifelike, to a viewer, to a bystander. But then… this canister is caked in dark crimson grime, and metal doesn't bleed. I remember the wound inflicted in Beetee's back, it did bleed a lot, and this was his wire. I wouldn't be surprised if this blood is his. Tired of mulling over all this, I finish another verse.

"_Hickory Dickory dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock.,_

_The clock struck two_

_And down he flew, _

_Hickory Dickory dock."_

It's a pleasant little nursery rhyme that I'm not quite sure exactly when or where I picked up. District 3, or course, but it's a large place. Maybe Mother sung it, or perhaps music class, although it wasn't viewed as an important course by the students at the school I'd attended as a child, mostly something for the younger children. Wherever I obtained it from, it's drifted through my head lately once I discovered the nature of the arena. I noticed myself singing it several moments earlier, and it's evidently stuck in my head, so to say, and it must have been for a while. Because of the arena. It wasn't very hard to notice, really, especially with the tolls chiming off. Twelve after the blood bath had ended. At first, the reason for the tolls had seemed a mystery to me, and everyone else. But then an hour later, a single toll had rung, and then… I don't know. There's just a laps. And now Johanna, Beetee, and I have rendezvoused with Finnick, Peeta, and Katniss. The female tribute from four is not to be seen, I assume we'll see her face in the sky tonight. Mags, I believe. I recall her to be quite clever, although I wasn't alive during her first games. But we found the three fairly close to us, and they were, are all… green, their skin cracked and peeling. Whatever happened to them it didn't happen to us. And then, earlier today, when six tolls rang, the mutilated, ravaged carcass of… someone… in another part of the arena. And blood… a vague memory of so, so much blood, didn't affect Katniss, or Peeta, or Finnick. And now, when a toll or number of tolls goes off, there is usually a cannon fire. Not always. And then, I suppose, before we met, two tolls signaled the unknown reason for why our friends are currently green and blistered. I've had to fill in a lot of gaps, at first I was doubtful, but we've all noticed how small the arena is, how confining the force field is, how circular it is, and there's never been any tolls in previous Games, so I think…

"_Hickory Dickory dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock,_

_The clock struck three_

_And he did flee,_

_Hickory Dickory dock."_

And there's one more thing. Blight, and a zap, and a cannon, muffled by the pitter patter of many droplets, streams pelting the earth. And all I know is that he isn't here now. And… rain. My mind comes back to it, and I'm not sure why. But there must be a reason, and I've learned that a person's subconscious mind is often smarter than the thoughts that they purposefully and actively execute. I feel sure that I observed the bleeding rain drops as a bystander, a witness, but… all the evidence points to something else. The faint, yet strangely plentiful lines of crusted blood on my skin, my _clothes_, on the hair and formerly mentioned accoutrements of Beetee and Johanna, but absent, replaced by green peeling skin on my other companions. The spool of wire, I'm _washing_ it for gods sake! And, what's more I can see them now. I've been more or less ignoring them until now, their words being less interesting than birds and clocks, but now I see that the surprisingly artistic boy, Peeta, is drawing a map of the arena in the sand. In a wedge labeled "1-2" is written "blood rain". One to two. One toll before my memory blanks. There's almost now way to be more certain.

I'm almost to the point of believing it, maybe I am, but I'm just so hesitant, I mean, how could I forget something like that? I _remember_ it, but I remember seeing it, not receiving it. I think about my theory of my subconscious acts meaning something, and all the evidence littered around me, and resign myself to believe it. Maybe the rains just left me a little disoriented. I've been told I'm easily distracted, and I am, but I've never really acknowledged it before now. With a new outlook, the former evidence around me shifts in identity within my mind, creating proof. That's basically what it always was, anyway. Decided, I feel at ease.

"_Hickory Dickory dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock,_

_The clock struck four,_

_He hit the floor,_

_Hickory Dickory dock."_

With my other thoughts satisfied, my body feels giddy with relief. Because of the clock. Katniss was the one who finally realized what I was trying to say. I could have gotten it out sooner, but, like I said, distractions. I've never been one to see the interest in a statement long enough to bother finishing it, confusing or annoying my audience and obliging Beetee to finish it for me. I guess I've always been lucky to have him around. But when I realized the arena had been built to resemble a clock, with different wedges, each with their own different type of torture, he just didn't see it, and for once he didn't verbally help me out, leaving me to my own devices, which have never been very equipped in that field, especially after the blank… the rain. All I could manage was "Tick, tock", because it was what I had rehearsed the most. I'd recited a frantic speech in my head, of how I would quickly and efficiently explain the nature of the arena. So much for that, it all fell to pieces. "Tick, tock" was all there was, and Blight was all there wasn't. I hadn't been close to Blight, we'd been from different districts after all, but somewhere I knew he was dead. That they were all dead, all my friends from my first Games. My relief when not Beetee, but Katniss, finally realized the arena, with the persistent help of my prompt, was such a relief, that I didn't have to keep worrying every moment, that I wouldn't have to explain, for reasons that would appear nonexistent to them, why we should not venture into a specific part of the arena at this time, that we shouldn't stay where we were at another. Katniss finally took over, and I was calmed, I didn't have so much responsibility, it wouldn't be my fault if we all went to the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up being shipped home in wooden boxes. I knew I couldn't let them die, let _her_ die. The face of the rebellion.

"_Hickory Dickory dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock,_

_The clock struck five,_

_The mouse did dive,_

_Hickory Dickory dock."_

Because even if they were left alive, we ventured into an active wedge of the clock and Finnick, Johanna, Beetee, Finnick, and I all died, there'd be no one to protect them, Katniss and her lifeline. Even if they were left unharmed, which would have been extremely unlikely, even if just one of us had been killed, it would be one strike, one less person to defend the Mockingjay, and, of course, the boy she lived for. And that was in the best scenario. Most likely, they'd die there as well. And without Katniss, the girl who thwarted the capitol, the mockingjay that has lived, despite their efforts to burn her, we'd be nothing. And the rebellion, it just has to work. It could mean a second Dark Days, but I honestly don't think it will. I think we're ready. I'm sure that's what they may have thought before, and look at us now, our children forced to slaughter each other. But we already have the Hunger Games, if we lost, well, although I might be inclined to say otherwise, it probably _could_ get worse, I'm sure the Capitol has no shortage of ideas along those lines. But we won't fail, because unlike last time, over seventy five years ago, we have the Mockingjay, we have a reason for loyalists to question their ways. And we have to protect the boy, Peeta, too, because I'm sure if he died, the Mockingjay's value in the rebellion would decrease substantially. Of slightly less importance, I've noted he has superior dictating skills as well, is good at winning people over with his "charm". There's that, but mostly, we protect him as much as we protect the mockingjay herself because we know she'd break the alliance after his death, and because he ensures her safety, in more ways than one, as opposed to his way with words.

"_Hickory Dickory dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock,_

_The clock struck six,_

_That mouse, he split,_

_Hickory Dickory dock."_

We. Me, Beetee, Johanna, Finnick, Mags, the Morphlings, Woof, Cecelia, Chaff, Seeder, Haymitch, Plutarch Heavensbee, District 13. And Blight. Thinking over how many people this is, I grow astounded. Even though I am, and have been, a part of it, I can't help but be overcome with wonder. The Capitol's been the ruling superpower in our lives for as long as any of us can remember, the merciless ruler that slaughtered our children, that I thought, as a child, would slaughter me. They've always ruled us, and now, to think that they might come crashing down… I almost don't believe it. But I do, not because I have to, not because I'm desperate, but just because I know it can happen. When people have been at injustice, (and understatement in our case), as long as we have, they get very angry, they become people who want a change. People who are willing to take action. Look at District 8, already in full fledged rebellion, and I'm sure the others will soon follow, once they see a force field exploding, suddenly appearing rebels carrying their tributes away, and eventually, a rebellion that will topple the Capitol. And we can't fail. We already have two Districts that have our backs, one of which is fully equipped and has a complete military force as well as airpower, and spies in the Capitol. If someone were to tell that lanky, frightened teenager standing atop a stage in District 3 all those years ago that she'd be here now, in yet another Games, protecting the face of the rebellion, working together with a secret network of countless other rebels, and with the hidden underground society of District 13, all preparing to topple the Capitol, I would have called them crazy. But here we are. It's happening. It really is this time. There will be losses, but if it's the price to pay to get rid of the sadistic Capitol and their Games, so be it. I feel a little heartless myself thinking like that, but all wars have casualties, and people are willing to give their lives to overthrow the Capitol. It's their decision. They know they might have to give their lives. I think the way I know I really am not heartless is because I'm perfectly willing to be one of those sacrifices. Probably will be. That's what we all signed up for when we enlisted, right? If the boy lives, the Mockingjay lives. If the Mockingjay lives, the rebellion lives. And if my death will make that happen, so be it.

"_Hickory Dickory dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock,_

_The clock struck seven,_

_Eight, nine, ten, eleven,_

_Hickory Dickory Dock"._

I'm slightly impressed that I've remembered this much of the tune so well. Wherever I learned it, it must have been thoroughly. I haven't ever thought much about the lyrics, the words of a nursery rhyme often being primarily for the purpose of supplying a child with a smile, and consequently are often silly things that go out of their way to rhyme, and often don't make sense. A mouse, a clock, simple and rather pointless. I can't ask much more from a children's song, but I'm genuinely fond of it nonetheless. _The clock struck seven. Eight nine ten eleven._ It's the first verse that diverges in form from the rest, and I feel as if the composer might have grown tired of coming up with new things and counted up like this to end the song more quickly, thus eliminating much more work on his part, and to make a nice rhyme.

I start to tune in to my companions' conversation. As they've already been speaking for a while, I have no idea as to what they're talking about, breaking into the middle of their words, but I can hear Katniss explaining something. I don't worry about missing out on any strategy they're discussing, Beetee would tell me later, anyway. And I've never been very helpful in those kinds of things anyway. Just as well; Katniss is saying something about canaries, and singing, and mines. Must be something from District 12. I wouldn't expect to understand it anyway, but apparently the others are attempting too. I'm entertained, not with the content of what they're saying, but of how they traversed from discussing the arena and Peeta's map, to birds. I can't claim any better, can I? I've been pondering birds as well. Mockinjays, if you're being specific. I suspect it was some little comment that was relevant to their conversation that lead to something slightly less pertinent, and that along to something else until they reached this current topic, completely unrelated to their original conversation. The complexities of language fascinate me, and the ways in which it operates. I've never been particularly skilled in participating in these delicate verbal manners, but their nature interests me nevertheless. Thinking of the birdsong they mentioned earlier, I happily continue my own.

"_Hickory Dickory dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock,_

_As twelve bells rang,_

_The mousie sprang,_

_Hickory Dickory dock."_

_Twelve bells rang. _Maybe this song was more necessary to my discovery of the arena's true build than I give it credit for. Twelve bells. Except in the song the twelve bells resulted in a springing mouse, and here they signaled a tree being struck by a single lightning bolt. And how Beetee would break us out of here. I've realized before that our whole plan rests on the Capitol. We'll rely on them to break them. I mean, if the arena weren't like this… but I know it's not just the Capitol, and I _know_ Plutarch Heavensbee had an awful lot to do with this. While he may be one who enjoys the frivolous Capitol ways, he still wants the Mockingjay free as much as any of us do. Speaking of which, she's still talking about canaries, singing, bad mine air, and now, death. Everything leads back to death at some point, I guess. I wonder if the human language has anything to do with it. With it's linking ability, yes, but that could lead to any new topic, victors just usually pick death, I suppose. Katniss didn't though. Katniss, the girl on fire, either lovesick or rebellious, I can not distinguish, who challenged the Capitol, who got us to where we are now. When I think about it, I should blame her, blame her that I'm in yet _another_ Games, but I can't. For one, she had no idea her actions would bring this, and she brought on all this… revolution. Yes, I'm fairly sure this Quell's twist wasn't merely random consequence. It was just timed too perfectly. Some things are like that, though. Maybe, there's nothing to say this wasn't the original twist written decades ago. But I highly doubt it.

Lovesick or rebellious? It isn't what I always come back to. I find myself thinking about the rebellion, but not the individual people, their thoughts, or reactions, their own struggles. Maybe it's in the human nature to tend to ignore other's stances. It surprises me that sometimes, I forget that they're both oblivious. They might think they'll die here, for all I know. Or maybe they're determined to win, to kill us all eventually. It's always been the way of the Games. If you ever make allies, there's always that tension, or with careers the lack of hesitation to kill each other if other tributes get scarce. Even with the tributes from the poorer districts, if they do make allies in the arena, they can never feel to safe with them, never _really_ become friends, because they know that one of them has to die. But that's again where Katniss diverged from the usual. I'd been enthralled during her first Games, when she practically _befriended_ the little girl, Rue, from District 11. They'd exchanged an awful lot, maybe more that the Capitol had bleeped, and I hadn't seen, they talked about their favorite things and their homes. And it was horrible because one of them had to die. We all knew it. I don't know how they relaxed in each other's presence with that thought weighing down on them. And one of them did die. The little girl, with a spear in her stomach, being sung to sleep. To death. Her last request. And then after that, the flowers, wild flowers everywhere woven into her hair covering her ugly wound to make it appear she really was sleeping, safe and warm, like in the lullaby. I think that was the first trace of rebellion we saw from the girl on fire. A testament that what was happening was wrong, that she wouldn't allow it. And even before that, not from her, but from her district. When they'd refused to applaud their tributes, when they'd stayed silent. And the three middle fingers, from their left hands, being lifted forward from their lips. I didn't know what it meant, but it must have been an old custom of their district, some sort of way to say goodbye. I think District 12 is a lot stronger than any of us give it credit for.

But, if they're so oblivious, and the think they're going to kill us all and win… they must know the Capitol won't allow two winners, not again. I really don't know what their plans are, it's all the more confusing because of the whole star-crossed lovers thing. That was _definitely _a first, making friends with allies, sure, but… this was more. But, I could tell when she really loved Rue, but I don't know about this boy. All we know is that she'd break the alliance with us if he were dead, so we keep him alive. The berries could be an act of love, but the victors know or think they know it was an act. They're probably right, but I'm not qualified to say, I'll let them sort it out. If anyone asked my opinion, I might say, I'm leaning towards the whole thing being a ruse, a thing they agreed to do to survive. Mostly I say that because, for Katniss' other rebellious acts, covering Rue in flowers, love for Peeta was not required, so it probably wouldn't be for the berries either. A way to keep them both alive, keep up the act, and show the Capitol something all at once. It would have been perfect, accomplishing whatever her _real_ goal was, and enforcing any others.

No matter what, I know she cares about him, to some degree. And there's something to say about the fact that we have to keep him alive to have her. As long as we have them both, we'll do okay, the Mockingjay will lead the rebellion, and the Capitol won't be able to stop us. I only hope Katniss will agree to it. She's oblivious to all this after all, I have to remind myself. She could decline, but I don't think she will. I certainly hope not.

Looking down at the canister, I realize the quality of my work has declined as I've grown lost in thought. The gaps between individual runs of wire are especially hard to clean out, and are still engrained with the stubborn red plaque. Furrowing my brow in determination, I scrub until my hands feel raw, and smile as a few minutes later my work is rewarded. I sing more verses, going through the song several times, still awing at how well I know it, and ensuring that it stays that way by grueling repetition. I must really like this song. After some more diligent work, all the while trying to keep these distractions that I've always been so prone to away, I remove the spool from the water. It's not, well, glistening, but, considering my resources, basically my hands and salt water, it's good, and it will work for our purposes. I stand happily, turn around to head back to my canary-speaking friends, and am met with the dangerous eyes of the male tribute of District 1, Gloss, only a few inches from mine.

A call for help, one that will easily drift over to the ears of my companions, is ready on my lips, but before so much as a squeak can escape me, his knife's at my throat and then, blood. And I finally am able to recall witnessing the blood rains in person, as the metallic taste of blood swells in my throat, and for a moment, just a moment, I'm not staring into the triumphing eyes of Gloss, but only red, and I think I might have just heard a zap. Then the moment's gone, and I'm on the ground, my blood flooding the wire spool and ruining my hard work. I could care less at the moment, though. An acute, sharp pain emanates from my throat, as If I just swallowed a wickedly sharp and rusted nail, the pain redefining itself every time I draw a racking breath. With the tissues of my esophagus split, more blood than oxygen fills my lungs.

I know I won't make it, I just wish I could warn my friends. They're not even aware of my fate yet, oblivious to Gloss' presence, what if he slips in and slits the Mockinjay's throat as well? But I know that won't happen, because I know that in order for Capitol to crumble which I just _know_ will happen, then they must live. It's like seeing a future where you're alive, old and having lived a rich life, and the next time you're in danger, you know you'll make it out, in order to complete your future. They say the life flashes before your eyes when you die, but I find the opposite. My death, and what it will ensure, is what I see. The future, where my friends are living in peace, and children are giddy and carefree, and the reaping is just a bad dream. While I know it won't ever be perfect, I know people, like me, will have to die for it to happen, I know it can happen, know it _will_,

And regrets? Am I supposed to have regrets? People usually do, when they die, especially victors, maybe regretting who they've killed. Maybe my biggest regret should be that I won't be alive to see the new Panem. But, I don't feel sad, strangely, at most… wistful. I was ready to sacrifice myself, and I did. My death will help my friends, they'll notice me, be alerted of Clove, go on to finish what they've started. I don't worry about the Mockinjay's safety, my friends will do well with that. Finnick, Johannah, and Peeta will protect her, and Beetee will ensure the forcefield's destruction. I was never very much help anyway, never solely instrumental. This is what I'm meant to do, how I ultimately do my part to help them, And, for the time I was here, the clock. I'm sure they would have seen it eventually, but I sped up the process, maybe saving their lives. My role was never great, but I'm not resentful, because I've helped, my input and death is just one more step to the future I see. I know it will be hard, I know many people have, and will, die. But our children will live in a happier, nicer place, thanks to our sacrifices.

So my biggest regret isn't that I won't live to see the future. And because I was always easily distracted, I'm not surprised when what I feel the most remorse over is the fact that my song, while sung many times, was never finished the last turn, cut off at the twelve bells. I can't speak; distracted and with poor speech skills, I guess some things just never change. I can't sing or verbalize, but it doesn't matter, because I know the tune by heart, somehow. So, as my vision darkens, choking on my own blood, I recite the last chorus in my head, finally abandoning my skill that was always the least developed, and using the one that has always been strongest.

_Hickory Dickory dock,_

'_Why scamper?' asked the clock,_

'_You scare me so_

_I have to go!'_

_Hickory Dickory dock._


	3. Oneshot Ideas List

** Here's a list of my ideas for different one-shots, tell me if there's one you'd specifically like. I don't know if anyone's really reading this, but I enjoy writing them, they're easier, and require less commitment, then a regular multi-chapter story. And I'm just not that great of a writer, so they're a good exercise for me, although not the second time through. After clicking 'Don't Save' for some unknown reason, the last thousand-ish words of the Wiress one-shot were deleted. Yep. Bawled my eyes out. Embarrassing, but true. Anyway, if you like any of these, review. Some of them I might not be able to do soon because I lent my copy of "Catching Fire" and "Mockingjay" to a friend, so first book scenes or non-dialogue scenes are basically what I can do now.**

_(I'll probably delete this chapter from the story after its purpose is served.)_

• Finnick's perspective of: Peeta's heart stopping/ Katniss' readtion

• Finnick or Peeta's perspective of: scaring Peeta awake with their green skin (would be shorter)

• Lavinia's (Avox Girl's) perspective of: seeing Katniss on tribute train, tending to Katniss while she's upset from her outing with Gamemakers

• Prim's perspective of: her death

• Buttercup's perspective of: flashlight game and/or mourning of Prim with Katniss

• Gale's perspective of: um… the romance thing, but it could be either during the first Games, or after Mockinjay

• Seneca Crane's perspective of: night lock incident and/or execution

• Mag's perspective of: anything really, she's a cool character, but the only real interesting scene with her is her death, so I probably won't dod anything with her because it would just be more rebellion thoughts, sort of like Wiress'

• I like Madge, so something with her, her perspective of giving Katniss the pin, or of the bombing

• Gale's perspective of the bombing

• Cinna's perspective of: something, death, maybe, anything exciting

• Female Morphling's perspective of: her death, some rebellion talk but mostly paint talk/ blood flowers

• Peeta's perspective of: Oh-god-she's-a-mutt-she-killed-my-family-she-has-to-die and what-the-hell-happened?

• Rue's perspective of: the monumental event of getting an entire two legs of groosling. (It was two, right? I'm a little rusty…)

• Thresh's perspective of: sparing Katniss, because they both understand about owing people

• Venia's perspective of: 75th Games, Why has she become sentimental, when did this famed entertainment change to something else?

I want to do something with:

- Johanna, because: she's awesome

- Foxface, because: she's even more epic than Johanna (well, maybe not, still unsure about that last part)

- Mags, like I said: über old lady

- Something unique with Cinna

- Anything better with Peeta that isn't just hopeless love (I like to read it, but no way can I write it)

So if anything comes to mind along those lines, feel free to tell me. There's a lot of things I could do, but I wanted to keep it specifically canon scenes, which is why I'm a little hesitant to do things like Gale's POV of the bombing, because I'd have to make so much of it up myself. I don't have a problem with that, but I wanted it to be other character's thoughts during specific scenes. That's why I'd have to do Mag's death or something, as opposed to her childhood.

**And there's one more thing I want to do, but it's not really from anyone's perspective. It would be third person, and it would be basically telling the story of the trilogy, briefly, but completely in analogy. So it would be a person catching a songbird, being sadistic or whatever, and then the equivalent of District 13, catching the bird. I just got this idea from when Haymitch said the thing about wanting to keep the mockingly now that she's finally begun to sing. So, tell me if you're interested in any of this. Ciao!**


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